A hush fell over the room as she crossed the threshold. She paused, eyebrow raised, and surveyed the bar. The crowd returned her gaze, soaking in her presence like an oil spill in a coral reef.

Some noticed her hair, jet black and glossy, as it spiraled down her back and shoulders, teasing her strong, slender frame. Some noticed her amber amulet, with a black ankh embossed into its polished surface. Some noticed her eyes, the golden irises that seemed capable of perceiving the very souls of the crowd entranced by her steady gaze.

John noticed the purple socks, peeking out from beneath her delicious black dress with its golden accents.

“Where is the man known as Wordsmith?” she inquired.

A man sneered and began to say “who’s asking,” but shriveled into a dead husk before he could finish. The crowd panicked, but were paralyzed by their fear.